


you can have my everything

by spookyfoot



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 3 + 1, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Canon, So Married, Yuri!!! In Russia, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-04 21:51:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10999716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: Ten minutes into gameplay and Yuuri’s found Victor’s secret to his monopoly on Monopoly.Victor cheats. And he’s not even subtle about it. Oh he thinks he’s subtle, his constant smirk is clue enough that he’s feeling unbearably smug about his underhanded tactics. Whatever mask Victor wears for press conferences and handling his fans melts away in the face of tiny, primary colored plastic houses, and the metal Scottish Terrier game piece he snatches up as soon as Yuuri lifts the lid off of the box.When Victor insists on being the Banker, Yuuri realizes he’s picked the wrong game.When Victor insists that Russian Monopoly allows players to collect $400 for passing "Go", but refuses to give Yuuri more than $200 because “you’re clearly playing with Japanese rules, Yuuri,” Yuuri starts casting longing glances at Mystery Date.When Victor insists that “in Russian Monopoly, a single house is actually a condominium complex, and since there are multiple residents paying rent, you have to pay me double for landing on Park Place,” Yuuri has to physically restrain himself from flipping the board.___________________3 times Yuuri strips out of self interest and 1 time he strips out of love.





	you can have my everything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleLostStar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostStar/gifts).



> title from Nine Inch Nails' "Closer". which i listened to on a loop for...*checks time* at least 7 hours while writing this. i'm not entirely sure how one led to the other but brains are weird. 
> 
> EDIT: SURPRISE THIS IS NOW A GIFT FIC. for my writer wife, [LittleLostStar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostStar/pseuds/LittleLostStar) who is the best and if you aren't reading Setting Sun go do it now. 
> 
> written for [YOI Fic Fridays](http://yoificfridays.tumblr.com)
> 
> I'm here on [tumblr](http://katsukiyuuristrophyhusband.tumblr.com)

_**1.** _

 

Victor’s been sneaking shopping bags into the apartment and Yuuri can’t ignore the building sense of terror skulking alongside his curiosity.  
   
Yuuri’s reading on the couch with Makkachin draped over his lap the fourth time he sees Victor creeping from the foyer to the office—the array paper bags crinkling against his thighs. Yuuri sets his book down with the spine still cracked and whispers, “go say hi.”  
   
Makkachin bolts off of the couch like she’s been magnetized and tackles Victor to the floor. The bags fly everywhere in a flurry of tissue paper and...is that tweed?  
   
Yuuri scurries over to the scene of the crime, scooping up a green cashmere sweater with mahogany elbow patches.  
   
“Vitya, what is this?” Yuuri’s holding up the sweater in question, as well as a blue and grey herringbone tweed jacket, “did you decide you wanted to be Sherlock and Watson for Halloween?” He looks at the sartorial debris littering the floor, "I think you forgot the pipe."   
   
Victor snatches it out of Yuuri’s hand and stuffs it back in the bag, flush smeared over the top of his cheekbones. “I’m trying out a new look!”  
   
Victor’s left eye is twitching—a clear tell he’s lying.  
   
(Victor hates it. It causes wrinkles.)  
   
“Really?” Yuuri arches an eyebrow. If he wasn’t before, now he’s absolutely sure that Victor’s up to something.  
   
“You know how I love to surprise people,” Victor winks through the twitch. Yuuri wishes he’d had his phone available so that he could have immortalized that facial expression on Instagram.  
   
“You know what would really surprise me?” Yuuri purrs, nuzzling up against Victor’s neck. Victor makes an unintelligible noise somewhere between a squeak and a moan.  
   
(These are the days Victor muddles through his mixed feelings about assigning Yuuri “Eros”. He's gotten too powerful, and Victor’s helpless. It's how Yuuri won the fight to keep that awful tie.)  
  
“A real surprise would be if you told me the truth,” Yuuri’s breath is hot against the shell of Victor’s ear and Victor feels his knees lock up—a defense mechanism to prevent them from buckling all together.  
  
“How about I show you?” Victor tries to match Yuuri’s tone but he forces too much air through his diaphragm and his question comes out as more of a wheeze than a whisper.  
  
Yuuri steps away from Victor’s ear but remains close enough to spark a lightning trail up Victor’s arm with his finger tips as he runs them from wrist to elbow. “Okay,” he's smiling, but it's all teeth—like he wants to eat Victor alive.  
  
(And Victor’s more than happy to play the role of feast.)  
   
Victor darts glances at each of the bags in front of him, grabs a light blue one, and thrusts it into Yuuri’s hands, trailing his palm across the small of Yuuri’s back to mask the fact he’s outright _fleeing_ to the office. If this is going to work, he’s got to get his shit together.  
   
Fifteen minutes later and he’s decked out in the green sweater, the tweed jacket, a pair of dark grey slacks, and slate blue wing-tipped oxfords that pick up on the blue accents in the jacket.  
   
“Vitya?” Yuuri’s knocking on the office door just as Victor reaches into his last bag to grab the props—a ruler, a piece of chalk with a small chalkboard, and a shiny red apple that looks good enough to eat—if you’ve got the palate to appreciate wax fruit. It's an acquired taste.   
   
Victor whips the door open with one hand while brandishing the ruler in the other, “you're late to office hours, Mr. Katsuki,” Victor purrs while giving himself a mental high five that he’s gotten the tone just right.

(For the first time all evening.)  
   
“It's Katsuki-Nikiforov? Vitya what—”  
   
Victor sees the exact moment Yuuri puts it all together: the tweed, the ruler, the chalkboard—the wax apple that's almost as obnoxiously shiny as their wedding rings.  
   
“This is the big secret?” Victor could have—and has—written an entire encyclopedia set dissecting the minute shifts of Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov’s facial expressions. But he can't parse Yuuri’s current countenance—which sends his already accelerated nerves into hyper-drive.  
   
(Yuuri’s fans have been deprived for too long. Victor’s performing a public service.)  
   
Yuuri steps closer. His shoulders look a little tense, but Victor’s ecstatic that Yuuri's wearing the school uniform Victor had handed him.  
   
(It had taken seven different packages poorly hidden under his coat and a novel's worth of furious reviews on Amazon to find the right one.)  
   
“The jacket looks good on you,” Yuuri says, fiddling with the lapels, “but I think it would look much better on the floor.”  
   
Yuuri steps away and Victor immediately misses the warmth of his body.  
   
“Come to think of it, mine would too,” Yuuri continues, sliding his navy blue blazer off his shoulders. He slips his arms from the sleeves one at a time, dangling the body-warm jacket from one finger before dropping on the floor where it pools by his feet.  
   
Victor doesn't even realize he's lurched forward until Yuuri admonishes him, “no touching.” He maintains eye contact while his fingers unknot his (not hideous, totally Victor approved) tie and then move on to work the buttons open on his shirt. The shoes, pants, and socks soon join their companions in a puddle on the floor. Victor’s standing fully dressed, tugging at the collar of his sweater while Yuuri’s down to his boxer briefs. Yuuri turns and saunters through the doorway, a deliberate sway to his hips.

“Are you coming?” Yuuri tosses over his shoulder before continuing towards their bedroom.

Victor scrambles after him, shedding clothing along the way, props left forgotten in the office. He comes soon enough. 

___________________________

It’s not until they’re lying in bed—sweat cooling on their bodies, Yuuri’s head cradled on Victor’s chest—that Victor realizes all of his meticulously curated props and costumes are lying abandoned all throughout their apartment.

“Yuuri?”

“Mmmm,” Yuuri mumbles into Victor’s chest.

“Did you do that on purpose?”

Yuuri snorts and raises his head, eyes sparkling, the left corner of his lips tugged upward in a smirk, “yes I absolutely meant to have sex with you. Do we need to go over consent?”

Victor pouts, but he runs a hand through Yuuri’s hair, fingernails dragging across his scalp. Yuuri closes his eyes and hums in contentment.

“Well I’m glad we agree on that, but I mean the…scene. The role-play. It took me a long time to find the right uniform.”

“Yes, I figured that out from the ridiculous amount of clandestine shopping trips you’ve been taking.”

“Yes, well… I was…distracted before,” Yuuri’s face is adorably smug, “but I realize you ignored the props and costumes and just drove straight into sex.”

“There's nothing straight about any of what happened here.”

“Yuuuuri,” Victor whines, “you’re so mean to me—”

“Yes, I’m the worst husband ever for having sex with you.”

“—I wanted to play sexy professor and student, but you hijacked it with your Eros—"

“Any and all blame for Eros related situations can be traced back to you.”

“—And you liked the pirate role-play! I thought bending you over the desk would be hot—" Victor monologues.

“It would be hot.” Yuuri agrees.

“—okay so, then why are we in bed and not the office?”

“Did you even stop to take a breath?”

“Yuuri, please answer the question,” Victor’s doing his best impression of Makkachin.

Yuuri sighs, “it’s embarrassing.”

“You told me about the time your sister caught you kissing your poster of my 2009 free skate—"

“You just love bringing that up."

“—And the time you had to get a new copy of my 2011 Calvin Klein ad after a masturbation session gone awry—"

"You promised me you wouldn't mention that again."

"—Plus I told you the real reason I cut my hair is because I fell asleep with gum in my mouth—"

“I don’t think that’s really the on the same level."

“—So why can’t you tell me this?”

Yuuri ducks under the covers and wraps himself up like a burrito. Victor pokes him. And keeps poking him until Yuuri shoots back out of his blanket tortilla to glare at him.

“I can’t believe I ever thought you were intimidating.”

“Yuuuuuuuuuri.”

“Fine. Just…it’s…ugh."

"Yes?" Victor pokes him again. 

"When I was in college I missed a professor’s office hours, but I thought he might still be there. And uh…let’s just say I had to take an extra class that semester because I dropped his course at the last second.”

“Why?”

“I got a lot more information about that professor’s personal life than I ever wanted.”

Victor bursts into a terrible honking laugh that Yuuri _usually_ loves— but he'd have to dig all the way to the Earth's core to find that feeling right now.

"Victor! Stop it! I couldn’t look him or the TA in the eye the next day. It sort of ruined that whole scenario as a potential fantasy.”

“So you stripped for me instead?”

Yuuri looks up to see Victor wiping tears away from his eyes.

“I hate you.”

Victor tackles him, “I love you too.”

 

 

**_2._ **

 

Yuuri sifts through Victor’s inordinately large pile of board games. He passes _What’s A Dame To Do?_ , _Don’t Let the Baby Go Blind_ , _Mystery Date_ , _Clue_ , _Mall Madness_ , _Super Hero High_ , _Monopoly_ , and _Victor Nikiforov’s Ice Rink Spectacular_. Wait, what was that last one? He stares at the cover for a second before—

“Vitya did you license your name for a board game?” How had teenage Yuuri not known about this?

Victor shrugs, not looking up the snack table, where he’s arranging the baby carrots into a tower and drawing a smiley face in sriracha onto the hummus.

“Sort of. That’s just a prototype, it never went into production. Somehow Figure Skating didn’t translate very well to a two dimensional piece of cardboard.”

“Wow, I wonder why,” Yuuri rolls his eyes.

(He ignores the all the other Yuuris (ages 12-23) screaming and popping nose-bleeds in his head.)

“It’s a tragedy I’ve never quite recovered from,” Yuuri hopes Victor’s joking, but he’s pretty sure he saw a tear fall into the hummus.

(This is the man he married.)

Yuuri pulls out _Monopoly_ , and sets the others aside. This is supposed to be a date night, he’d rather not deal with his husband bursting into tears.

When Yuuri sets the box down on the table Victor’s face lights up, and then he turns to Yuuri with a devious smirk, “that’s a dangerous choice. I’ve never been beaten at _Monopoly_.”

___________________________

Ten minutes into gameplay and Yuuri’s found Victor’s secret to his monopoly on _Monopoly_.

Victor cheats. And he’s not even subtle about it. Oh he _thinks_ he’s subtle, his constant smirk is clue enough that he’s feeling unbearably smug about his underhanded tactics. Whatever mask Victor wears for press conferences and handling his fans melts away in the face of tiny, primary colored plastic houses, and the metal Scottish Terrier game piece he snatches up as soon as Yuuri lifts the lid off of the box.

When Victor insists on being the Banker, Yuuri realizes he’s picked the wrong game.

When Victor insists that Russian _Monopoly_ allows players to collect $400 for passing "Go", but refuses to give Yuuri more than $200 because “you’re clearly playing with Japanese rules, Yuuri,” Yuuri starts casting longing glances at _Mystery Date_.

When Victor insists that “in Russian _Monopoly_ , a single house is actually a condominium complex, and since there are multiple residents paying rent, you have to pay me double for landing on Park Place,” Yuuri has to physically restrain himself from flipping the board.

“Vitya, do you have the rule book?”

Victor clutches the sheaf of paper to his chest, “yes, but it's in Russian. Aren’t you still struggling with your reading comprehension?”

(Victor knows Yuuri graduated with a degree in Russian Literature.)

“Victor.” Victor flinches at the use of his full name. If he has to, Yuuri will go full force and break out the patronymic.

Victor sits on the instructions, “oh look, they’ve disappeared! How tragic.”

“Mmm yes, almost as tragic as the fact your board game never made it into production.” As Victor’s nodding about the Nikiforov Board Game Tragedy of 2006, Yuuri pulls at the collar of his thin, wash-worn grey shirt, “did you change the setting on the heater?”

Victor’s counting the paper money in his hands. For the fifth time. His pile is at least three times as large as Yuuri's. 

“No, it should still be at 23.”

“Are you sure?” Yuuri asks, pulling his shirt over his head. He throws it so that it arcs above Victor’s head and lands on the couch behind him.

Victor’s mouth opens but fails to form words.

“Because it feels like it’s at least 30 in here.” Yuuri slides off his soft sleep pants. They barely make it to his ankles before Victor tackles Yuuri, flipping the board and scattering plastic houses everywhere.

___________________________

“This is going to stop working eventually,” Yuuri’s curled around Victor and running his hands through Victor’s hair.

“Sure.”

“I mean it.”

“And I believe you,” Yuuri lies.

 

 

**_3._ **

 

  
“Vitya I’m home!”

“In the kitchen!”

It only took a week of living with Victor to realize that while Victor is an _excellent_ cook, he's terrible at cleaning up afterward. Yuuri will come home from an extra session in the ballet studio with Lilia—or from playing video games with Yurio—to a four course meal—and the accompanying restaurant's worth of pots and pans piled up in the sink.

Yuuri doesn’t mind helping out with dinner by cleaning up after, he just doesn’t understand why Victor feels the need to use every utensil and pan in their apartment—even when he’s only making eggs.

(Hiroko had always taught Yuuri to clean as he cooked. When it's his turn to make dinner there are usually three pans soaking in the sink once prep is over—and they're ready for a light scrub when the meal's finished.)

Tonight, Victor’s prepared a feast with the dirty dishes to match.

“Yuuri!” Victor wipes his soapy palms on the front of his apron—he’s wearing the one Chris got him for his last birthday; baby pink with “Trophy Husband” written across the chest in rhinestones.

(Victor also has a blue apron that says “World Best Dog Father," and a set of matching his and his aprons he had patterned after their Stammi Vicino ice dancing costumes. He also got one based on the “Eros” costume for Yuuri.)

“How was practice?” Victor drops a kiss on Yuuri’s cheek and shepherds him over to the table where Victor’s pre-emptively pulled out his chair.

The mouth watering scent of macadamia crusted halibut, garlic mashed cauliflower, and roasted brussels sprouts hits Yuuri’s nose and the _last_ thing he wants to do is talk about practice.

“S’fine,” he says around a mouth of cauliflower.

“Yuuuuri,” Victor leans forward, ignoring his own plate to fix Yuuri with A Look, “as your coach I’m going to need a much more detailed report than that.”

“After dinner,” Yuuri mumbles, picking up his knife so he can dig into the fish.

(It’d been an adjustment to use silverware more often than chopsticks again.)

“That’s a binding promise,” Victor tries to impress Yuuri with what Victor calls his Coach Face. Yuuri refuses to tell him that it just makes him look like he’s got a gas.

(The hours they've spent laughing about Victor’s Coach Face have cemented Yuuri and Yurio's friendship.)

___________________________

After dinner, Victor perches their dirty plates on top of the precarious pile stacked in the sink. Then he wraps his arms around Yuuri’s waist, hooks his chin over Yuuri’s right shoulder, and tries to guide him toward the couch.

“Vitya, the dishes.”

“We can deal with them later.”

“Oh, and when is later?”

“…tomorrow morning?”

“You mean when we ignore our 5:30 alarm, wake up at 6, and rush to the rink?”

“Yuuuuuuri,” Victor whines, “I just want to cuddle with my husband.”

“And we will cuddle. After we clean the dishes.”

Victor’s pouting as Yuuri leads him back to the kitchen. He eyes the sink suspiciously. “I don’t remember using so many dishes. Do they breed?”

“I refuse to believe you think inanimate objects are capable of reproduction.”

“The universe works in mysterious ways, Yuuri. I am but a simple traveller in a world full of unknowns.”

“Vitya. Dishes. Now.”

Victor sighs and grumbles as he retrieves their matching blue and pink aprons from where they’re hanging in the pantry. He slips the blue one over Yuuri’s head, and the pink one over his own before grabbing his poodle patterned rubber gloves from the drawer beside the sink. Because, as Yuuri has learned over the past year and three months of marriage, Victor Nikiforov, idol of his youth, is actually a melodramatic dork who needs a costume for everything. Even washing the dishes.

Victor washes the first three dishes in a symphony of sighs. Yuuri finishes six in the same amount of time.

“Yuuri?”

“Yes?”

“I’m absolutely sure that dishwashing is the universe’s most concentrated form of ennui.”

Yuuri sighs, which Victor takes as implicit agreement, “I knew you would understand.”

“What if I offer you a reward?”

“Oh?” Victor runs a gloved finger down the side of Yuuri’s neck. The rubber squeaks against his skin and Victor’s finger leaves a trail of soap bubbles in its wake. It’s decidedly unsexy. The things Yuuri does for love.

“Mhmm,” Yuuri peers in the sink, “there are only seven dishes left. And, wow, would you look at that—I’m wearing exactly seven pieces of clothing.”

Victor flushes, and finishes the first dish. Yuuri removes his apron, then dries the first dish as Victor starts on the next one.

Yuuri’s sweater, left sock, right sock, shirt, pants, and underwear follow shortly. Victor’s never cleared the sink so fast.

___________________________

“I’ve unleashed a monster,” Victor moans against Yuuri’s back, face pressed between his shoulder blades.

Yuuri shivers a little, the blast of hot air tickling his back, “Oh yes, I’m sure you’re absolutely heartbroken about the horror you’ve unleashed in your bed.”

“I’m a delicate man, I can only take so much manipulation.” Yuuri doesn’t have to see Victor’s face to know he’s pouting.

“Is it really manipulation if the participant is aware and willing? And just likes to complain?” Yuuri asks.

“So cruel.”

“My point stands.”

“And apparently so do your underhanded methods,” Victor sighs. He winds his arms around Yuuri’s waist, kisses the nape of his neck, and plots his revenge.

(Victor plans to use Yuuri's tactics against him when Yuuri avoids doing their laundry.)

 

 

**_+1_ **

 

Victor’s been moping for the last month. Yuuri wants to help, but he can’t do that unless Victor actually _tells him_ what’s wrong.

(He’s gotten far too many “you guys need to work on your communication,” lectures from Phichit to let this go.)

And he knows that he’s not imagining it. Yakov gives him looks when Victor’s talking to Mila or Yurio—looks that explicitly beg Yuuri to “fix whatever the hell is going on with that idiot.” During his last two and a half years in Russia, Yuuri’s not only become fluent in Russian, but also Feltsman.

(Plus he’s reached conversational fluency in Plisetsky.)

It’s not obvious—Victor’s careful to keep his melancholy as a shade, something that lurks at the corners of your eyes and disappears when you face it head on; then, under a bright spotlight gaze, it morphs into a plastic smile and a trite re-assurance that there’s nothing to worry about.

(Victor should know by now that Yuuri’s as good at worrying as he is step sequences. He’s had enough practice with both.)

Yuuri knows Victor. And he knows that he’s hiding something. When Yuuri’s tiptoed towards the topic in the past, Victor just dismisses it and tells him to focus on the fast approaching Grand Prix Final. Yuuri can’t seem to find the right words to tell him that this see-saw between knowledge and ignorance is just making it worse.

“Vitya.”

“Mmm,” Victor’s face is buried in Makkachin’s fur.

“Vitya we need to talk.”

Victor pulls his head away from Makkachin so fast Yuuri’s tempted to check him for whiplash. Once Yuuri gets a glimpse at Victor’s face he immediately regrets his phrasing.

“Yuuri?” Victor’s face is pale, and Yuuri hasn’t seen him look this upset since Barcelona, or the first time they had a fight bad enough that Yuuri threatened to sleep on the couch.

Yuuri clambers off the couch and crawls over to Victor, bundling him up in his arms as they kneel on the floor. Some distant part of Yuuri’s brain notes that this is going to be hell on their knees.

“Are you divorcing me?” Victor mumbles into his shoulder, so quietly that Yuuri barely hears it.

Yuuri pulls back so Victor can see his face when he says, “no! Of course not!” Victor immediately leans back in to his embrace, and Yuuri’s a little startled to notice that his shoulder is damp.

“Come here,” Yuuri says, guiding Victor to the couch. He lays down first and arranges Victor so he’s cradled on top of Yuuri’s chest.

Makkachin joins them after a few minutes, a comforting weight against their feet. Victor’s breathing evens out as Yuuri alternates between running his hands through Victor’s hair and placing soft kisses on the top of Victor’s head. He’s not used to Victor needing this much re-assurance, so he imitates the small acts of affection Victor showers him with when he feels unsteady.

Yuuri’s not sure how long they stay like that, but when he glances out the window he notices that it’s dark. He starts to shift and Victor’s head pops up, face drawn tight with alarm. Yuuri cups a hand against the side of Victor’s face and rubs his thumb against the soft skin of Victor’s cheek, slightly tacky from dried tears.

“Come to bed?” Victor nods, face relaxing incrementally.

Yuuri leads him into their bedroom, keeping their fingers laced together. He settles Victor on the bed and starts removing his clothes. He slides the shirt over Victor’s head and dots a line of kisses from between his shoulder blades down to the small of his back. After he helps Victor out of his pants, he swaddles him in their down comforter before walking over to the corner of the room to put Victor’s clothes in the laundry hamper.

When Yuuri turns around, Victor’s waiting on the bed, arms wrenched free from the blankets and reaching out for Yuuri.

They settle on the bed, Yuuri on top of the blankets, still fully dressed, and holding on to Victor in return.

“Can we talk about it?”

Victor releases a rush of air from his lungs, “it’s…”

“It’s what?”

“You’re going to think it’s stupid.”

“Vitya, nothing that makes you feel like this is stupid.”

Victor lays back down, pulling Yuuri against his chest—reversing their previous embrace. “I’m turning thirty this year.”

Yuuri waits. Victor’s finally talking and Yuuri's scared that if he interrupts it'll break something he has no idea how to fix.

“For most of my life, I _was_ my skating. Imagining thirty felt like admitting there was a world without that.” He tilts Yuuri’s head up, meeting his eyes, “I have so much more in my life now. Things I never realized existed outside of stories. Before I met you…I tried to ignore the emptiness because, well, it was awful, but it was familiar. For all that I love surprises, I’m not above the comfort of routine.” Victor lets out a forced chuckle that's really more of a sigh. He starts drawing circles between Yuuri’s shoulder blades with the tips of his fingers. “I’m so happy with you. I need you to know that. But turning thirty…I’m reminded of how much more I have to lose. Twenty year old Victor never wanted thirty year old Victor—so why would you?”

Yuuri kisses him, a gentle, dry, brush of lips against one another. When he pulls back, he keeps his forehead pressed against Victor’s.

“Thank you. For telling me.”

Victor just nods. He's apparently used up the last of his words.

Yuuri makes sure Victor's looking at him when he says, “Vitya, I’ve wanted you since I was twelve. And I want you more at twenty six than I’ve ever wanted anyone.”

Yuuri stands up, pressing a finger against Victor’s lips when Victor tries to pull him back into his arms. He peels off his shirt and tosses it onto the floor. They can deal with it in the morning. He starts on his pants. “I’ll show you how much I want you, how much I'll always want you—right now, and every day after that. For the rest of our lives.”

Yuuri slides into bed, enveloping Victor in whispers of affection and the slide of skin on skin.

After, in the dark, holding Victor from behind in the dark, Yuuri says, “I can’t wait for your birthday.”

“Why?” Victor whispers, as though he’s still a little afraid of the answer.

“Because,” Yuuri says, brushing a kiss just under Victor’s left ear. He leans in close. He wants Victor to hear this, “it means that I’m lucky enough to have spent another year of my life married to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> \+ why yes that is a shoutout to the johnlock shippers of the world
> 
> \+ _What's A Dame To Do_ is a [real game](https://www.amazon.com/Whats-a-DAME-to-do/dp/B0012LHWTS) that I played in high school french for mysterious reasons. 
> 
> \+ the fake game _Don't Let The Baby Go Blind_ is a reference to The New York Neo Futurist's Show "Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind." you might know some of the neo futurists from welcome to night vale. 
> 
> \+ thank you to [dommi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dommific) for giving me the idea of the role-play gone wrong. and for reading a scene i wasn't sure about. 
> 
> \+ the second chapter of _set sail from sense_ is half written and will hopefully be done soon. 
> 
> + i'm 100% sure the +1 for this fic is the sappiest thing I've ever written. Which is even more impressive when I remember that I've posted a story with a proposal scene. 
> 
> +thank you for reading <3


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